


just locking eyes with you makes me glow up.

by culticmyexecution



Category: NCT (Band), SM Rookies
Genre: Falling In Love, First Kiss, M/M, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2016-10-28
Packaged: 2018-08-20 14:54:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8253152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/culticmyexecution/pseuds/culticmyexecution
Summary: Once, it all suddenly became too much for him to handle; and, with his lungs as if full with water, he reached his hand.





	1. holding hands only fingers crossed

**Author's Note:**

> tags (and rating probably) will be updated in the process.

          The last thing Johnny needed when he was busy staring vacantly and tiredly at the bites of marinated chicken on his plate and clicking the tips of his sticks quietly in the air was Ten sitting in front of him.

          After the long practice, not having even taken a shower, all Johnny had wanted was to sit silently in the canteen and ponder a few minutes on what he had to do with how his attitude to Ten had changed — but he had no chance, as Ten thought it was a good idea to join his hyung. Without asking, as usual, and Johnny said nothing; it sometimes even seemed that everything adapted to what Ten wanted, both people and circumstances.

          Youngho suddenly wasn't hungry anymore, his shoulders stiff and wrists sore.

          Due to Ten's usual smile, due to the way he had put his hand on Johnny's shoulder before rounding the table and sitting down; due to how warm his eyes always — _always_ — looked, and that day wasn't an exception, Johnny for a long moment couldn't inhale, trying to cease to subsist in that moment and in that place.

          He mustered enough strength to nod in greeting — but that was all he could do, not willing to look at Chittaphon but sensing the familiar smell (which he thought came more from a habit, for he believed it wasn't really possible to feel the scent that was itself barely noticeable from the distance of a dining table) and having creeps crawling on the back of his neck because of that.

 

          He couldn't really put his finger on the exact moment when the thing had started, so he stuck to the idea that the moment itself did not exist, that it was more of a process, a kind of, how he called it, continuous self-torture.

          At first, he hadn't noticed how he tried to steal a glance, to touch as if unintentionally; how warm he felt each time Ten smiled at him — he later tried to persuade himself that Ten smiled at _everyone,_ but it didn't work.

          Johnny started to crave for touch. To put his hand on Ten’s shoulder, to hug him, to sit nearby, to stand a few centimetres closer than always, to rest his head on the younger's shoulder when he wanted to show something on his phone screen. The perception of Ten being close to him put him at ease no matter how stressed or tired he had been.

          Then, it changed slightly. Johnny distinguished the odour of Ten that he had never really felt before, and got used to it instantly. His attention shifted a bit to how the other looked, and quite often he would just forget himself, staring at Ten's lips while he was speaking; or at his hands while he was drawing whatever it was at some evenings. He suddenly was hypnotised — in a new way for him — by how Ten danced; how he moved; how he put all of himself in dancing; how flexible he was and how well he controlled each and every movement of his body; he looked almost inhuman, almost surreal.

 

          There were two emotions in Youngho at the same time.    

          He needed _more_ of Ten than he would ever be allowed to have,

          and there was also realisation.

          What he realised was that after almost two years of knowing Chittaphon he suddenly started climbing the walls to run away every time the younger entered the room. It was near impossible at times to have him around, for Johnny felt how his legs weakened with every touch and word — and Ten _likes_ touching and _is_ hard to shut up. The air stung Youngho's lungs, and it took so much effort not to let his hand move and touch that beautiful face; but to brush the thin defined lips with the tips of his fingers, to pull at the hem of the usual oversized tee, to hear his name pronounced in a completely different way than it usually was,

          it was something he had longed for.

 

          A few times, being cornered by sensations, he felt like he was about to cry, not knowing what to do and only having the wish to become closer to Ten at his disposal.

          A few times, he even had vivid dreams, waking up from which he loathed, the feeling of Ten in his hands — even though only generated by his subconscious — made his rib cage all of a sudden too narrow for his lungs. Ten's fingers brushing his wrist felt almost real, his smile looked the same as the one in this world, his voice was also the same; it all felt just _too real,_ and after waking up Johnny felt as if buzzed, the reality around him toxic and asphyxiating, the walls of the room pulsating and swinging.

          Staring at the ceiling, he would curse under his breath and wipe the sweat from his neck with the back of his trembling hand.

          ‘That's how you fucking go nuts,’ he would laugh soundlessly and bitterly, shifting in his bed, looking at the wall now. At the tips of his fingers, there was a strange cold feeling, and he would clench and unclench his fists a few times before closing his eyes and falling into sleep again.

         

          At one of the film evenings they had regularly but lately less and less frequently, somewhere in the middle of yet another action film, Ten rested his head on Johnny's shoulder and dropped his light hand on his hip, palm looking up.

          The air was scalding cold as Johnny inhaled, electricity snaking up his spine, his heart nearly whined once, twice — he thought he would faint right there, in the darkness of the room, sitting on the floor with Ten close to him, with his friends on the couch to the right. There was noise in his ears as the younger's hand turned and palm rested on Johnny's thigh.

          ‘It's boring,’ Chittaphon whispered. ‘But it's comfortable and I don't wanna leave. You're soft and warm.’

          _‘Yeah, sure.’_

Johnny supposed it would be better — easier for sure — to die right there.

          By the end of the film, Ten had changed his position and fallen fast asleep, his head on Johnny's hips, leaving the other on his own with the frazzling thoughts, yet somehow managing to help him stay sane and calm, as if not letting the ideas in Johnny's mind go too far.

          He couldn't prevent the older being exhausted by reflection, though.     

          The effect Chittaphon had on him that night was destructive, just the tiniest bit more than usually, but wanting to bend — no one would even have noticed in the unlit room — and press his lips to Ten's, to let his hand touch his skin under the sweater, to steal some of Ten he'd never have otherwise—

          for Johnny it was enough to be angry at himself.

        

          So angry, in fact, that Youngho had decided he should avoid Ten for some time as he believed that it would make the soft pull at the root of his tongue and the tingle in his stomach go; that he just needed a break so that what he thought had been physical would vanish. So that he wouldn't do anything stupid and, if he could say so, betray Ten in some way.

          He had been successful for three days then.

          It would be silly to think Chittaphon wouldn't notice.

 

          So here they were, sitting at the opposite sides of a table in the cafeteria, Johnny afraid to look up and Ten piercing him with his glance — the older couldn't see, but he felt it quite distinctively.

          ‘Are you okay?’

          Youngho nodded, not moving his look from the food, the metal tips of his sticks still clicking in his hand.

          _Just go_ , he thought, _please just go. I do need a break._

_I don't want this to grow._

_I don't want to lose control._

_I don't want to lose you because of this._

 

          He thought he would go insane if he had to keep it in himself any longer.

          Each time Ten touched him, he felt like fading, diffusing in the moment. Each time, it struck him like a needle piercing his solar plexus. It had been too little time for him to get used to all the ‘ _I want to touch you's’_ and _‘I want to hug you's’_ and _‘_ _I want to kiss you's’_ in his head.

          The problem was, he didn't know how to react and what to do, for yes, Ten came from Thailand and they had been all so very liberal there, but the US had also been liberal, yet his mother had been furious when she'd found that selfie his first and last boyfriend had been dumb enough to post with those idiotic kiss emojis—

          She hadn't talked to him for a week, but Youngho's father — which was quite a surprise, for he was a much more devoted Christian than anybody in the family — made her _think well_ about the situation. She understood eventually.

          But there was always a chance Ten wouldn't understand — fan service was one thing, but this was different — so to Johnny it seemed easier to wait a bit and cool down so that the friendship he cherished wouldn't be destroyed by his stupid heart — or, as he actually believed it to be, by his dick.

 

          ‘You don't really look well,’ said Chittaphon in a concerned yet casual tone before taking his sticks.

          They ordered same meals, once again, and Johnny would laugh at that any other day, but at that time the fact that of all the diversity of meals that the cafeteria provided Ten chose an exact copy of Johnny's lunch made him feel even more exhausted.

          ‘Now that's a compliment.’

          ‘Ah, you know what I mean.’

          He did, really. He wasn't insomniac, and didn't look sick — no bags under his eyes, no visible exhaustion — but for anyone knowing Johnny for more than a few days it would seem obvious something was out of place.

          ‘Maybe it's the winter. I've been apathetic for a few days now… for no particular reason,’ Youngho finally dared glance at Ten, trying his best not to look like a beaten dog.

          He didn't lie, the weather indeed had been terrible for a few days. It was cold, and at nights, the snow wouldn't stop, only to melt in the morning. Obviously, it did no good, making Johnny feel lonelier in his bed — and all the time, actually.

          ‘Are you eating enough vitamins? I've heard if you lack of them you might even get depression,’ Ten's beautiful black eyes met Youngho's, making the latter freeze.

          ‘I am the one following the diet up to the last letter, you know this,’ he felt somewhat cold, and miserable. The voices around did their best to distract, but Johnny, like it had happened for many times already, felt like he and Ten were the only people in the room. It was a bit unsettling each time, but Johnny believed that he would get used to it gradually, that he would get rid of that tingling, and that he would be able to just look at Ten again without willing to let his hands, and eyes, and lips, respectively, touch, see, and kiss and say everything he had wanted to.

         

          However, at that moment, he wanted to reach his hand, to place his shuddering palm, with fingertips harsh due to guitar practices, on Ten's elegant hand that was lying on the table; to brush the smooth skin, to feel pointy knuckles by touch; to—

          honestly

          —take his hand and never let go.

 

          And he wanted it so sincerely bad that he did just that; he reached his free hand but stopped midway, right above the sauce pan.

          His stare glued again to the pathetic forgotten meal, Johnny was about to pretend he had in fact needed the sauce and was just too dumb to take it quickly, but the sensation of Ten's fingers interlocking his made him raise his head.

          The hand was dry, and smooth, and so _warm,_ the skin so soft — he'd got quite used to it already, but every time Chittaphon took his hand, no matter what for, his heart started a race. The _eyes_ of his, those virtually black irises; the shape of his lids that made him nearly always look like he laughed was a bit shifted then, and Johnny could see genuine concern without any tint of ‘casual’.

          Ten was so beautiful for him that he questioned two things at the same time; the first of which was whether Ten or the world itself were real or just some sort of matrix or whatever; then, what he had done that was considered so bad (or good, such details didn't really matter) that Ten was beside him, and so close to him, never out of reach, always eager to have physical contact, always smiling and _as if being sincerely happy to see Johnny_.

         

          The warmth of Chittaphon's palm, the gentleness with which his fingers touched the back of the senior's hand, the tender look of his mesmerising eyes, it all was suddenly too much.

          ‘I'm so far gone,’ Youngho whispered before he could even think.

         

          _I am simply…_

The realisation made him blink in stupor. It had been all so obvious, yet he had been trying to persuade himself that it was merely physical, that it was not just that he had been

          _in love with Ten._

         

          And Ten—

          Johnny felt as if the chair below him melted and he himself, instead of falling down, was held by some strings somewhere in the space of the room,

          —Ten just smiled.


	2. 0209

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the light is closer than it seems

            Ten sat on his heels in front of Youngho, shoulders relaxed, the gentle smile on his lips; wearing one of his notorious oversized shirts, a pyjama T-shirt that left his sharp collarbone bare, his skin looking white in the darkness of the room.  
            There was lying on his thighs a tiny black box which he held carefully, and he moved his look from Johnny to the box and back, as if a bit unsure what to say.

  
            ‘I am late a bit, sorry,’ he finally smiled faintly, brushing the ribs of the box with the tips of his fingers, and moved it towards the older.

            Johnny took the box and with his thumbs caressed the silk strip that decorated the cover. His heart started a race for a reason unknown to him; Ten beamed at him, agitated.

  
            ‘Thank you,’ whispered Youngho and lifted the lid.

  
            Inside was a rigid bracelet; it looked like white gold, and was thin and elegant; not waiting for his reaction, Ten moved forward.

  
            ‘I want you to try it on, right now.’

  
            ‘Ah. Sure,’ he swallowed, not able to say anything more.

  
            Chittaphon took his hand and put the bracelet on it; after a few moments of struggling with the lock, he showed the result to Johnny, not letting go of his wrist.

  
            ‘Happy birthday,’ he said quietly, his thumb barely touching the rim of the bracelet and at the same time caressing the skin on Youngho's wrist.

  
            ‘Thank you,’ he whispered once again, looking at Ten's hand, his lips parted and shuddering with a wish to say one more thing — but he didn't have time to get ready, for Ten moved before he could even think of moving, and touched Johnny's lips with his own; as lightly as if it was a touch of a feather. Johnny inhaled sharply, his spine twitching in a shiver; he closed his eyes and, afraid that Ten would pull away, moved ahead just slightly, pressing his lips cautiously; after a few cruelly long seconds, he stayed like that, not even with a centimetre of a distance between his lips and Ten's.

  
            Johnny's hand moved, free from Ten's grasp; fingers ran across the younger's skin; from the wrist to the inner side of the elbow where it tickled just a slightest bit to the shoulder that was only covered with the rim of the tee.

  
            ‘Ten,’ Youngho mouthed, his lips brushing against Chittaphon's at that; they both inhaled harshly.

  
            ‘Kiss me,’ was a hiss from Ten; he gulped; and uttered, his lips trembling, ‘I want you to kiss me.’

  
            He made a sound at the sensation of Johnny's lips pressing softly but almost pleadingly against his own, and obeyed the urge of his own body to move closer and put his hands on the older's shoulders. He felt dizzy; Johnny was overwhelming, he kissed gently yet with much feeling; Ten felt Youngho's hands touching his spine to pull him closer.  
            Johnny sensed that his lips were shuddering but after a split second decided to ignore the fact; the taste of sweet tea on Ten's lips being enough to substitute the world around him. The body in his hands — he had seen it in his dreams, however, then he couldn't and didn't want to remember that, for Chittaphon really _was there_ — seemed and felt fragile, yet he knew the boy was anything but. When his tongue brushed Johnny's lower lip, the older moaned, more in surprise that it was all actually happening, that Ten, his Ten, the one and only, was there, in his hands, kissing back, his lower spine an elegant curve under Youngho's palm, with soft tissue separating the two.

  
            Ten pulled back and opened his eyes; by some sense, Johnny did the same.  
            A few centimetres separating them, they looked at each other, saying nothing.  
            There really was no need to.

 


End file.
